My chest squeezes painfully. “I’m sorry, Grandma. That must’ve been so awful for you and Gramps.” I can only imagine the torment my kind, generous grandparents had gone through, watching their one and only daughter carelessly hurting people all her life.
A bittersweet smile curves Grandma’s lips. “Awful for us? Oh, Emma, sweetheart… you’re the one who was raised by her. And you’re sorry for us? Darling, if you needed any more proof that you’re nothing like your mother, here it is, in spades. You have more empathy in a single nose hair than Brianne had in her entire soul.”
I stifle a startled giggle. “A nose hair?”
“A nose hair,” Grandma says firmly. “And if you take your entire nose—well, there’s really no contest. As to the financial disparity between you and Marcus, let me ask you this… Do you care about him?”
I blink, all desire to laugh disappearing. “Yes, I do.” I am, in fact, in love with him, but I’m not ready for my grandmother to know that.
She smiles, squeezing my hand. “I thought so. The two of you remind me of your grandfather and me in our youth. The way you look at him and the way he looks at you…” For a second, she seems lost in fond memories, but then she refocuses on me, her gray gaze sharpening as the smile fades from her lips. “Sweetheart, listen to me,” she says quietly. “You’re nothing like Brianne. Never have been and never will be. The issue with your mother was not that she took money from the men she dated—it was that she didn’t care about them as people. To her, they were nothing but wallets with legs. As long as you don’t see Marcus that way—as long as what you two have is genuine—there’s no shame in letting him spoil and indulge you… take care of you in whichever way he wants. Money is an obstacle only if you let it be one—so don’t let it. Don’t let Brianne poison your life from her grave.”
16
Emma
I think about Grandma’s words throughout the rest of our time in Florida. It’s strange, but I never considered that by fighting so hard not to be like my mother, I’m keeping her toxic influence in my life. Then again, Grandma’s been on my case about this issue in one way or another for years. First, she and Gramps wanted to take out loans to help me through college—an idea I vehemently vetoed by taking out the loans myself. More recently, they’ve been wanting to take out a second mortgage so they could help me with said loans. It’s both touching and maddening, because the last thing I want is to ruin their retirement with stress about finances.
That’s what one’s twenties are for.
Thankfully, I don’t have time to dwell on this much, as Marcus and I spend nearly every minute of our vacation together, both with my grandparents and on our own. On Friday night, we go to the movies after dinner; the following morning, we return to the beach and stay there until lunch, alternately swimming, strolling along the water, and working on our laptops. During that time, I finish my novella edits and start toying with the opening lines of my super-secret project while Marcus zooms through Excel spreadsheets with what looks like a hundred tabs—financial models from his analysts, he explains.
It’s nice to be working side by side with him, being productive while still enjoying each other’s company. In a way, Kendall was right. As different as we are ambition-wise, we share a respect for deadlines and obligations, viewing work as an important part of our lives rather than something unpleasant to avoid.
After the beach, Marcus invites my grandparents out for lunch at a local Italian place—to thank them for their hospitality, he explains—and as much as it pains me to let him pay for all of us, I keep my wallet in my bag to avoid another lecture from Grandma. I console myself with the promise that I will pay him back, and I further ease my conscience by ordering the cheapest item on the menu.
When the meal is done, all four of us go for a walk in one of the local parks, and I again marvel at how well Marcus is getting along with my family. As we stroll along the Intracoastal, he chats with my grandparents as if he’s known them forever—all the while holding my hand in an unmistakably possessive grip.
Mine, his gesture proclaims to all who look at me. This woman is mine. And in case they don’t get the message, he directs a glare at any male jogger or bicyclist who smiles at me—which many do, since people in this area are quite friendly. He was doing the same thing when we were on the beach, but it was more understandable there, as I was wearing only a bikini. Here, though, I’m dressed in a very basic outfit of a T-shirt and jean shorts, and his unconcealed jealousy is both flattering and ridiculous. He’s acting as if I’m so beautiful he has to beat off other men with a stick, when in reality, he’s the one drawing all the female eyes.
With his tall, hard-muscled body, boldly masculine features, and the air of power that clings to him like an expensive cologne, he’s the kind of man women of all ages dream about—and secretly masturbate to.
My grandmother notices it too, both his possessiveness and the way other women eye him like candy. “I have to say, your boyfriend is completely obsessed with you,” she says as I help her set the table for dinner that evening. “Even while talking to us, he kept watching you like he was afraid someone might steal you. And all his focus was on you. Zero attention to that blond hussy who was all but stripping on the park bench in front of us. The jogger who said hello to you, though…” She lets out a low whistle.
